my valentine

i’ve said it before, but being loved by you feels like waking up in a warm bed on a sunday morning.

i page through my journals from the last two years and it drastically jumps from being alone and saturated and indulgent in my independence, dating, fantasizing, traveling, to oh God I Really Like him and i didn’t mean to. i didn’t know him but suddenly i am playing songs on my guitar again and making chocolate covered strawberries and thinking about all the places i want to go with him. i hardly knew him but i wanted to. quickly and thoroughly.

i secretly took photos of his bedroom the first time i slept over. creepy, yes. we laugh about it now. he left early for work. i laid in his bed at 7 am wondering if his housemates were home and wondering how this happened and why did i sleepover and oh god, i think i like him. he cooked me dinner. i looked around at his plants, his rugs, his thrifted knick knacks and his stacks of books and his frames on the wall. oh god he decorates his room. and its clean. i think i like him.

i liked it when you sat next to me instead of across from me at the nice coffee shop somewhere down south. i liked to admire your side profile. i learned that this is how we will always prefer to eat in restaurants, side by side, sharing noodles and pizzas and both people watching and observing everyone’s conversations. i liked that you ordered an oat milk cappuccino. and i learned that this is what you will always order. i liked that i didn’t know where we were going but i trusted whatever choice you made and you gave good directions while i drove us in my van. i liked that you never made me feel bad when i repeated myself and told a story i already told. i liked that i could be the one to reach out to hold your hand and it made me a little nervous but in a good way. i liked discovering your hand drawn tattoos that your clothes cover and how your heart beats incredibly loudly. i liked when i got my first bouquet of flowers and learned that you assemble them yourself and wrap them up in brown paper all pretty, and you would do it for me again many more times. and you just knew that i am not a roses type of person.

you jump out of bed to get me medicine when i wake up with a migraine. you don’t make me feel bad for drooling on your pillow, or if i fall asleep on your couch during a movie we were supposed to watch together. you know that if we’re out at a bar and i ask you to get me water, that is my language for “i’ve had too many espresso martinis and need to go home.” you always take me home. you jumped out of my passenger seat to pump my gas for me and i pictured watching my father doing the same acts of love for my mother for so many years.

for once in a long time i feel safe. i’ve said it before, but being loved by you feels like waking up in a warm bed on a sunday morning.